


The Saint’s Bondage

by iberiandoctor (jehane)



Category: Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Bad Jokes about Jack-Screws, Bathing/Washing, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Smut, Hair Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Injury in the Line of Duty, Javert’s long hair, Les Jours Treat, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Negotiations, Old French Virgins, Orgasm Delay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pushy Bottoms, Roleplay, Saint Jean, Sexual Tension, Size Kink, Valjean Tops, Wall Sex, princess carry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-25 21:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14985962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: It’s not easy to live with a saint, especially if you’re a sinner.





	The Saint’s Bondage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dylan_m](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dylan_m/gifts).



> Happy summer, D — I hope this mildly kinky treat hits your spot! Thanks, as always, to Miss m for the beta <3

Inspector Javert felt the overwhelming impulse to pound the table with his forehead. Unusually, this time, no incompetent subordinates were involved. 

The occasion was this: he found it could be intensely frustrating to live with a saint.

That was not to say that there were _no_ benefits to such a circumstance. Indeed, it was quite the contrary. Jean Valjean, benefactor and savior and companion far too good for the likes of him, had overlooked his sins and saved his life twice over. He had rescued Javert from the river, put him in his own bed in his home at the Rue de l’Homme-Armé, and cared for him for weeks, until Javert's fever broke and he had healed sufficiently to retrieve the pieces of his life. Had let him leave that home, still raging furiously at himself, and the world, and at Jean Valjean for compelling him to live in it, and had, bemused but welcoming, allowed him to return, again and again, like a stray dog to the heel of a new master. Only a saint would have done that. 

Even more astoundingly, months afterwards, when Javert's starved heart and body had been roused for the first time, that saint, Jean Valjean, had once again responded in love, and had welcomed the sinner into his bed in a way that was quite unprecedented for both of them. 

Javert would never understand it, and would never stop being grateful for Valjean’s astonishing, singular goodness.

But all this did not mean that goodness could not, under certain circumstances, be _intensely frustrating_.

He tried not to glare at Valjean, who was at present holding his injured hand and washing it carefully with a wet rag. His touch was as tender and gentle as always, and it was driving Javert out of his mind.

He knew how unfair he was being. After all, his frustration was not something he had expressed to Valjean. In fact, it was something that he himself had only recently discovered. 

Indeed, before the previous Friday, Javert would have counted himself the most fortunate of men. Both he and Valjean had, in the course of their lives, never before experienced physical love; in Valjean’s bed, they had learned together. Once Valjean had been persuaded that Javert truly desired him, he had proved himself as skilled in the act of love as he was at sharpshooting and scaling walls and entering fortified strongholds — and in even this he was saintly: as gentle and considerate of his companion’s satisfaction as any heart could wish.

And then the Friday, when matters had changed. 

Javert had been excused from work. The night before, he had hurt his ankle pursuing a burglar along the cobbled streets of Les Halles, and had to be helped home. Valjean had bandaged the injury and had spent the day fetching him tea and blankets and fussing over him. 

Javert endured this nonsense as best he could, but when evening came and Valjean announced he would help him with his ablutions, he had had enough of it.

“For God’s sake, I’m not dying, there’s no need for you to treat me like a child,” he snapped, as Valjean put his arms about him and readied to assist him up the stairs. 

Valjean gave him a look of long-suffering patience, which he had not worn since those early, difficult days. Perhaps Javert had not been enduring quite as well as he had at first believed? 

Then a faint gleam came into his eye. 

“If so, you would not feel the need to act like one,” he murmured, mildly, and he lifted Javert bodily off his feet as if he weighed nothing at all.

Javert experienced a moment of extreme disorientation. Valjean’s strength was overwhelming, his deceptively sinewy muscles seemingly as strong as they had been thirty years ago — when he had been known as Jean-le-Cric, or Jean-the-Jackscrew: the most fearsome prisoner in the bagne with the strength of ten men. 

Javert fought down the urge to struggle, because he knew it would be useless. Instead, he could do nothing but submit helplessly to Valjean’s powerful arms, allowing Valjean to carry him up the stairs.

Valjean settled him in the empty bathtub. “Take off your clothes,” he told Javert, his tone as gentle as it had always been, and yet there was a note of command in it that reminded Javert of the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer. It made Javert shudder. When Javert complied, wordlessly, Valjean washed him with water that Toussaint had left for them, calmly and in a manner that brooked no argument, cleaned and oiled his hair, and then dressed him in his nightshirt and carried him to their bed.

After prayers were said, Javert lay sleeplessly beside Valjean and realised that he was monumentally aroused. 

Something Valjean had done — in taking charge as Madeleine would have, in displaying the overbearing strength of Jean-le-Cric — had bestirred Javert in a way that their previous tender interactions had not. 

Wonderingly, he pressed a tentative hand to his companion’s slumbering shoulder. “Valjean…?” 

Valjean woke briefly, murmured, “Save your strength,” and then went back to sleep.

Javert ground his teeth together. He passed the rest of the night wide awake, and rock-hard. 

The next night, when Valjean deemed him sufficiently recovered to indulge, he was as gentle and considerate with Javert as he always was. And matters were indeed as good as they always were, but, ingrate that Javert was, he now found that there was something lacking. 

It was the same story the night after that, and the one after that — Valjean was saintly, and Javert was left dissatisfied. 

It was enough to make any red-blooded man pound his head against a table. 

It was only a matter of time before it came to a head: after all, Javert manifestly did not deserve how good Valjean was to him. And how could he expect Valjean, that saint, to understand Javert’s sinful desires, when Javert did not even understand them himself? 

On the third and fourth night thereafter, Javert tried to convince himself the fancy would pass. When it did not, Javert attempted to communicate his newfound inclinations to Valjean. 

“I’m not made of glass,” he growled, on the fifth night, as Valjean worked him open diligently with the oil they kept by their bedside for this purpose. “Even virgin brides would not need this,” he remarked, on the sixth, as Valjean finally eased himself, inch by careful inch, into his passage. 

Still, Valjean was so saintly he could not fathom what Javert was asking of him. His response to Javert’s comments and physical cues was to smile his faint, wry smile, and to go even more slowly. 

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

On the seventh day, the present one, Javert had gone out into the most notorious district in Montparnasse and picked a fight with three shady characters. In retrospect, it was fortuitous he wasn’t knifed in the back. He did, however, manage to hurt his cudgel hand. 

After his colleagues had dragged the criminals to the station house and all the paperwork had been processed, Javert hauled himself home, announced, “I have been injured,” and flung himself into a chair under Valjean’s startled nose.

“Has a doctor seen to this?”

“As you know, I have no faith in the medical profession,” Javert snapped. 

He thought he saw the now almost-familiar gleam in Valjean’s eye — but in the next moment that saintly man bowed his head and said, humbly, “Then let me see if I can help?”

And so here they were, sitting at their kitchen table, with Valjean washing Javert’s hand as gently as if it were made of fine porcelain. 

Javert was on edge, waiting for the miracle to occur, aware that he had started to grow stiff under his uniform. But Valjean merely finished cleaning his hand, and then bandaged it very carefully, using many layers of gauze — for God’s sake, it was not that badly hurt! — and then he said, “You should get as much rest as you can. It is only by God’s grace that you were not more grievously harmed.”

Javert very much did not desire to rest. “I am not tired,” he said, pointedly.

Valjean looked puzzled. “No? Then perhaps you would wish to take a turn around the garden? The strawberries are finally coming in.”

Javert ground his teeth together. “That is to say, I wish to retire to bed, but I do not wish to rest.”

“Perhaps you wish me to read more of our book to you?” Valjean suggested, and looked astounded as Javert did after all press his forehead to the surface of their kitchen table.

“It looks as if you might have hit your head as well,” Valjean said, raising Javert’s face solicitously to the light. 

This was the final straw. Javert seized hold of Valjean’s collar with his good hand and kissed him as if he was about to expire from thirst, and at this point it certainly felt that way.

Valjean was smiling when they finally came up for air. “I am sorry,” that good man told Javert. “I see now you are in need. Forgive me, I am still so unused to such things.”

Even after he had been thoroughly kissed, with his mouth red and cravat undone and his white hair standing on end, Valjean still looked like a pristine icon in a stained-glass window — benevolent and saintly and sorrowful. Javert wanted to tear his own hair out. 

“Don’t be sorry. It is my fault. I am such a filthy criminal that I wish… that you would…”

“ _…Ah_ ,” Valjean said, finally, and his eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “And that is what has been ailing you these past days?”

“Yes?” Javert said miserably. He was not entirely certain what it was that he was confessing to, but at last this sin was in the open.

Valjean still looked uncertain, and Javert realised he would need to be more explicit, otherwise the humiliation that had already transpired would have come to naught.

He squared his shoulders. Was he not the policeman most feared by all Paris’s underworld? The worst that could happen was that Valjean would laugh, and even then Javert could not be entirely averse to anything that brought amusement to his quiet, solemn friend. 

“That is to say… I enjoyed it when you took charge of me last week. You bore me upstairs, and washed me, and I could not have resisted you even if I had wanted to.”

Valjean was quiet for a moment. Javert knew he wanted to say that certainly he would have released Javert if Javert had but murmured the slightest word of protest. “You enjoyed that?” he said, instead, tentatively.

Javert resisted the temptation to bang his head against the table again. Instead, he smoothed Valjean’s loosened cravat with his good hand. “More than enjoyed,” he confessed, between his teeth. 

“Well, then,” Valjean said, his eyes glittering, and without further ado he swept Javert into his embrace. Javert struggled to catch his breath as Valjean’s powerful arms tightened around him and carried him upstairs.

It had been a balmy night, and their bedroom was warm. Valjean set Javert down on his feet at the threshold, looking hesitant again. “Would you like to be washed?” he ventured.

Javert narrowly stopped himself from sighing. This was new for both of them; he could not fault Valjean for being unsure, not when he, Javert, was being an incontrovertible ninny. “I would like you to tell me,” he said, pointedly, and a ghost of a smile curved Valjean’s mouth.

“I see,” he said. “In that case, I wish to wash you. You are filthy from the streets. In our home, I would like you to be clean.”

This was so satisfying Javert almost groaned aloud. 

Silently, he submitted himself to Valjean’s efficient ablutions. Valjean stripped him and opened his hair and washed him thoroughly without comment, even though he could not fail to notice how painfully engorged Javert had become. 

When he was done, Valjean took a moment to survey his handiwork. Javert supposed he was satisfied by what he saw — Javert himself, not a stitch upon him save for his small clothes and the bandage on his hand, unbound hair loose across his shoulders, and harder than he had ever been in his life.

Valjean’s eyes flashed. “Did you set out tonight looking for trouble?” he enquired. 

Javert felt himself flushing all over. “Perhaps,” he murmured, at last. “I am an unmitigated fool.”

“That you are,” Valjean said, in a changed tone: it was the charged, commanding voice of Mayor Madeleine. “Might it be something you would do again?”

“No,” Javert said. His heart had started to hammer. “It was most unwise of me.”

Valjean made an approving noise. “Where would you like to —?” he began, then he checked himself. “Turn and face the wall,” he said instead, and Javert hastened on suddenly unsteady legs to comply.

This was a position which they had never used, but it was a familiar one: guards in Toulon often commanded prisoners to face the wall to be searched; often, they were strip-searched. Pressed against the wallpaper in the same thrillingly shameful manner, Javert found himself panting quietly. He could not see Valjean’s face, and the anticipation of being touched made him shudder.

Fortunately, Valjean did not make him wait for long. Work-roughened fingers caressed the muscles on Javert’s bare back and pulled his small clothes down. A trail of oil trickled down the cleft of his buttocks, and shortly afterwards he felt a blunt, slick hardness butting against his entrance. Only this time, it was not Valjean’s careful fingers that met him there, but Valjean’s massive prick. 

Javert spread his thighs, and with an enormous thrust of his hips, Valjean drove himself inside.

It was too much, and much too quickly, and yet Javert wanted even more. He heard himself make a guttural, wanton noise that sounded as if it had come from someone else.

Valjean stopped instantly. “Am I hurting you?” he asked, in tones of concern.

“No,” Javert said, not entirely truthfully, “and keep doing that, only more quickly.” 

Valjean huffed another worried sound, but he did indeed pick up the pace. The stretch of Javert’s hole around that large cock was overwhelming and utterly glorious. He felt his body yield itself up to Valjean’s powerful thrusts, surrendering inch by inch; he had not realised he had begun to sag against the wall until he felt Valjean’s hands about his forearms, holding him up and pinning him in place with his immense strength, and that, too, felt glorious. 

“Does this feel good?” Valjean asked. It was the gentle query of the saint, but this time it held the mayor’s ring of authority.

“Yes. Don’t stop.” Javert fought for control; he wanted to push against Valjean’s restraining hands, to test the limits of his surrender, but he knew if he did that Valjean would automatically, frustratingly, release him. Casting around for something else to say, he blurted out, “If I had known how good it felt, I would have asked it of you years ago. I would have asked Madeleine. I would have even asked Le Cric.”

Valjean’s strokes faltered for a moment, and Javert paused as well, fearing he had gone too far. Then the man who had been Le Cric snorted, unexpectedly: “There are many uses for a jack-screw, after all.”

“This is truly the best one,” groaned Javert, as the former Jean-the-Jackscrew proceeded to make good that avowal, hammering himself into Javert’s body again and again, taking his pleasure without any of his old hesitation, holding nothing back. Javert had no words left for how overwhelmingly good it felt.

“Command me,” he managed, between thrusts. “If you please — Valjean —“

“Very well,” Valjean said; he was also panting. He released Javert’s left wrist, and wound his fingers in the thickness of Javert’s hair. “Then understand me. You are never to risk yourself in this way again. You are mine.”

Javert’s head jerked back; Valjean held him with the easy command of Madeleine, and the brutality of Le Cric, and a tenderness that was unlike anyone else. “Yes. I am yours. I will never — never again —“

Valjean released Javert’s hair and reached down to take hold of Javert’s rigid cock. Javert gasped with a pleasure so intense it was almost pain. “And next time we will speak frankly of matters that trouble you?”

“Yes,” Javert groaned. He closed his own hand around Valjean’s fingers and started to thrust into their joined fists. “Anything. Only — let me, I need to —”

“I am serious, Javert,” Valjean said, and he stilled the motion of his hand as well as his prick, and this time Javert had to bang his forehead against the _wall_.

“You mean to kill me, don’t you? All right, I’ll do as you ask. Now, for the love of God —“ 

“Spend for me, then,” Valjean murmured, and began to stroke once again, and Javert could not hold back his cries as he poured himself fiercely over his and Valjean’s hands in spurt after spurt of white.

For a deeply embarrassing moment, he felt as if he was going to lose consciousness. Dimly, he felt Valjean withdraw, and lift him once more into his arms. When his full sense of self returned, he was lying in their bed, with Valjean contemplative beside him.

“Perhaps it was too much to expect,” Valjean was musing, almost to himself.

“What was?” Now the storm had passed, Javert felt almost weightless with relief, and wrung out by pleasure.

Valjean looked somewhat abashed. “The part about your promising to confide in me. I know how poorly I fare in this myself.”

This was indeed a most fair and saintly admission! Javert considered the evidence. “That’s true. You’re the one with the history of keeping secrets from those who esteem you the most.” He put his bandaged hand on Valjean’s chest. “But I’m willing to concede that we are equally bad at it.”

“Then it’s something we should both try to do better,” Valjean said. In the moonlight, he looked dear and familiar, and entirely himself. “In this way, the Almighty turns sinners into saints.”

“Indeed,” Javert said, and buried himself more deeply in Valjean’s embrace.


End file.
